


Conquest

by Cinnamaldeide



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Awkward Situation, Beta Read, Biting, Blood, F/M, Fanart, German Philology, Hannibal is not necessarily a cannibal, HannigramFirstKissChallenge, Historical References, M/M, Manipulative attempts, Note exchanging, Piercing, Possessive Behaviour, Requited/Unrequited love, Study Group, justfuckmeup2, merrymurderfest, the "William" issue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2018-10-20 17:06:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10667043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinnamaldeide/pseuds/Cinnamaldeide
Summary: Hannibal may be older, more mature than Will is; he is apparently not above messing with his näive classmate at the Germanistic Faculty, in which he enrolled after graduating with honours in med school. He can’t resist; Will is just the kind of playmate he has been looking for.





	1. Conquerors

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Phenobarbital](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phenobarbital/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My grateful thanks to [Phenobarbital](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Phenobarbital/pseuds/Phenobarbital), for offering much needed support and grammatical corrections over and over again :)

Germanic History proposes an incredible variety of unpronounceable names absolutely impossible to remember; among others, William poses one rare exception to the category, probably in consideration to its lack of consonant clusters, contrary to Ælfric or Æfeldeorht.

Will is not even sure he had written them correctly in his notes, given their teacher’s horrible handwriting, yet he intends to refrain from asking Hannibal’s opinion on the matter, especially after his intervention led him to fail so miserably at their last group project; without any justification other than his own morbid curiosity, Lecter has done nothing to prevent his assessment from becoming bloodshed.

Will had promised him a reckoning, to repay his kindness.

“William the Conqueror,” Alana reads aloud with her soft, soothing voice, attempting to dispel the heavy silence in the otherwise quiet room; Will keeps his gaze averted and his legs crossed under the table, while hearing her shifting position to accommodate further communication. “Your name has Norman origin, who would have guessed?”

Her expectant eyes move from his unresponsive, not remotely reciprocating features, to the focus of his interest: the equally unmoving pair of glasses lying on his book; he had never felt the need to wear them in the presence of Alana, never wanted to distance himself from her, not until Hannibal went from being his best friend to the person who stole his longstanding crush.

 “Who’d have guessed,” parroted Will, far more concerned with not reproaching her about their current uncomfortable situation; Alana cares for him, strives to ensure their triangular relationship doesn’t undergo the totally inevitable changes of dynamic posed by his attraction, the very same that she can’t reciprocate. Contrary to her, Will is not interested in including Hannibal in their problematic interaction.

Hannibal has left them alone, aware of their recent, awkward effort to maintain something akin to friendship, despite Will having confessed to finding her very kissable; said he would prepare some snack for their poor sugar deprived brains, with the actual sole purpose of emphasising his essential presence to ensure that Alana would feel comfortable.

Her tentative smile betrays a certain anxiety, indeed; he had warned her that their restricted study group would only highlight their uneasiness, yet she has been adamant in her decision, convinced that facing the same predicament would bring them close again. Truth was, not even Analysis II would do the trick; that’s how far from friendship they are at the moment.

“William I, also known as William the Bastard,” Hannibal interjects as he steps in, stealthily entering with very quiet footsteps, elegantly offering the tray in front of his guests; “first Norman King of England, reigning from 1066 until his death in 1087.”

“You don’t need to study further for this exam,” Alana comments sweetly, letting her fondness show in a wide flirting smile; so typical for a girlfriend to direct to her beloved.

“You already sound like Wikipedia all the time,” prompts Will, not entirely sure he likes the feeling of petty jealousy related to his host across the threshold. Alana is staring at him so persistently he’s tempted to ask her to direct her anger towards his earlobe; he would save the money for the piercing he’s still not convinced to get, despite Beverly’s pressing. “I wonder why you accepted to take part of this excuse of a cram session.”

Will can read the subtle amusement reaching his eyes, even if Alana fails to overcome the hard line of his inflexible lips; Hannibal doesn’t deign him with a sincere answer, mindful of their audience, preferring to pretend he suffers his nastiness in silence; “ _William_ ,” Alana instead can’t refrain from utter in her cold, disapproving tone.

“Don’t,” reproaches oh so understanding Hannibal, “I suppose Will still blames my carelessness for his recent tragic experience with Hobbs.”

Will doesn’t blame Hannibal; he blames himself for trusting Hannibal, which is entirely different. He has the possibility to amend his mistake, possibly lure out his twisted inner nature, in order to prevent Alana from falling for the same oversight.

“I take responsibility for having forgotten to mention the subject change,” continues Hannibal, serving them with a large portion of his freshly baked strawberry shortcake; “I imagine it’s easier to believe I’m responsible for his failure–”

“Cut it out,” Will abruptly interrupts him, impatient to get to work even at the risk of forfeiting the inviting slice of cake; he can count on one hand the hours he has slept at his last attempt, not that this justifies him.

“ _William!_ ,” retorts Alana once again, so annoying in her approach because so effective on him.

“Don’t, _William_ me,” replies Will bitterly, embarrassingly aware his fit of irritation is completely uncalled for. “Can we just… keep studying? I need to put my mind in this, otherwise I’ll have to take the blame entirely on me this time around, when I fail; can’t possibly accuse Hannibal of obstructing my education twice in the same week.”

Slicing his defenceless piece of cake with more animosity than necessary, Will blows off some steam; letting the click of forks on ceramic filter the palpable veil suffocating their urge to communicate, he can return to those unintelligible Old English names, considering Wikipedia might turn out to be a valid option, all things considered.

“William seems to have an aggressive temper,” Hannibal absentmindedly observes, collecting his neat sheet in a single sharp movement of his hands. His gaze purposefully averted, so as to prevent Alana from catching his knowing glance in his direction.

Although he could technically resist his deliberate baiting, Will is sure that Hannibal will not stop poking at him until he obtains whatever he hopes to obtain by trying his patience. “My name is Will Graham. Short for Will Graham. Not William, nor Wilhelm, neither Wilbur or any other strange variants my father was _not_ contemplating while naming me.”

The shade of red spreading on Alana’s blank face would match the vibrant colour of Freddie’s flowing locks; Will keeps her in his peripheral vision, concentrates instead on putting an end to Hannibal’s questionably polite attempts at conversation.

“I’m fully aware, Will,” calmly retorts Hannibal, with a mischievous look in his brilliant eyes, “I was in fact speaking about our Conqueror.”

Will is not the least bit impressed; this consideration no doubt provides a fancy interlude to some discussion he is certainly not interested in, contrary to Hannibal.

“It must have made him feel powerful to conduit 10,000 soldiers in the battlefield, exercise on their head the power of life and death.” Hannibal recites their book text almost poetically, “Despite continued rebellions and resistance, his triumph over the English army in the Battle of Hastings proved his true value and shed him of the undignified appellative he was known for.”

“It’s a name I should be proud of,” Will completes his sentence, exercising his own personal intrusive ability, remembering shortly after, that his party trick always pleases Hannibal, instead of leaving him unnerved as his interlocutors usually were.

“It is,” responds Hannibal. “He demonstrated his worth as a warrior, rising from the miserable condition of an illicit childhood, although noble blood ran through his veins; even the archbishop Ealdred prostrated himself and his God to the hollow king.”

Briefly considering that he caused bloodshed, in order to be crowned, Will murmurs, “Stop quoting the Chronicles, it makes me feel bad I need to know them by heart as you do in three days.”

Hannibal proceeds undeterred, “However tempting it might be saturating your name with meaning, the process might result in an unfortunate failure, considering it suffocates the incredible potentiality of your name.”

Will follows his lead, “People may inadvertently take me for a conqueror.”

“If one didn’t know better,” Hannibal suggests.

“Speaking from experience?”

Amicably averting his eyes, Hannibal pauses their engaging banter; he also indirectly acknowledges the legitimate observations Will uses to endorse his theory; “You’ve probably experienced first-hand the discomfort of a challenging name. You wear it with an elegant posture, as I’m sure you always did, even in surroundings not exactly forgiving.”

“You would think it poses as a good warning,” observes Hannibal, suggesting it was not his case.

“Not everyone disposes of the historical background to understand the dangerousness of a Carthaginian general,” Will indulges. “To make myself clear, the fact that you’re named after some weird Tunisian individual does not give you the right to manipulate my name so that I share your same burden and you feel less alone, in your unfortunate circumstance.”

Will bets his succinct speech sounds completely absurd from an outside perspective, he can’t blame Alana for turning him down whenever he thinks about it. Hannibal though just gives him his confused look, the one reserved for when he is lost and can’t decide if it’s disdain or admiration the strange emotion wandering in his system.

“You have my sympathy, if this makes you feel better,” Will concludes, even if the both of them know he has no sympathy to spare, nor would Hannibal enjoy someone else’s pity. In the overwhelming stillness he manages to create once again, Will repeats to himself that he knew this was a bad idea all along and curses himself for not having opposed more firmly to this reunion.

“I like your name; I also like mine,” Will admits in the end, more honest than he’d comfortably admit to himself and those present in the room. “It’s this series of incomprehensible runes I don’t understand. How do you even write them, I wonder!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the records, Hannibal may sound like Wikipedia because I _did_ quote Wikipedia.


	2. Conquered [#JustFuckMeUp]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much [DrHannibalLecterMD](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DrHannibalLecterMD/pseuds/DrHannibalLecterMD) and [Houseofcannibals](http://archiveofourown.org/users/houseofcannibals/pseuds/houseofcannibals) for finding and fixing my endless mistakes :* the both of you have greatly improved my work

Despite Hannibal’s beautiful but perfectly unintelligible handwriting, so typical of doctors and medical students, Will accepts his notes before heading back home. “You’re my friend,” Hannibal insisted, refusing to take no for an answer. Will protested; he has his own, Hannibal might as well rather lend them to someone who actually needed them.

“I don’t care about the grades of our classmates, Will, I care about _yours_ ,” Hannibal declared, bringing to an end the discussion practically shoving them in his bag.

Suspecting his apparently generous classmate might be getting off on the prospect of being partly responsible for his achievements, Will rolls his eyes at the perfect score scribbled on his test sheets and considers not sharing the results of his assessment with Hannibal; his ego doesn’t need further stroking.

Will prepares for when Hannibal will come to collect his notes instead.

When Hannibal will park his expensive, imported car a couple of blocks away from Will’s modest apartment, consciously seeking to blend in with his insipid neighbourhood, knocking on his door, entering his room, indiscreetly prying into his surroundings under the pretext of needing the restroom, while Will prepares coffee feigning unawares.

Coffee that Hannibal will thank him for and dispassionately sip from an old and cheap teacup, all the while comparing his own refined blend with the pre-grounded beans that Will purchases at the store across the street; coffee Will anticipates to offer him, precisely because he knows Hannibal loathes its taste.

Picturing the discrepancy between his appalled wince and the covetous expression in his eyes, Will could almost believe in his display of affection, in his declarations of friendship; irredeemably compromising his chances at working on a respectable thesis project with Professor Hobbs and almost entirely removing Alana from his companionship, Hannibal reminded him he was _not_ to be trusted.

Will learned his lesson the hard way.

According to his current count, Hannibal has enjoyed significantly messing with him twice so far, which is twice too many for his taste; he deems it necessary to ensure there’ll be no third occurrence.

Punishment isn’t something Will is fond of. Neither is Hannibal accustomed to the concept of deprivation as disincentive to misbehaviour. Threatening him is especially counterproductive, since Hannibal perceives idle threats as challenges, more than last chances of redemption.

Drastic measures are often required on his part, whenever it comes to Hannibal, such as relying on his empathic disorder to disclose the most efficient approach in order to take advance of his ill-concealed tendency to obsessive behaviours and insistent possessiveness, in regards to his person.

Hannibal meticulously labels his personal effects, sparingly shares his proprieties, apart from his notes apparently. He also lingers in longing stares at Will’s features, unashamedly contemplating the tantalizing and slightly unsettling possibility to place his mark on them too. Will knows intimately the shiver crossing his back whenever Hannibal seeks to establish stable eye contact, before Will has the presence of mind to avert his eyes; Will thinks that exploiting Hannibal’s weakness, anticipating his moves, may reveal a successful strategy.

For that reason his right earlobe is pierced with two hypoallergenic metallic needles, which Will dutifully spins in their respective cavities. Ice cubes have been pressed to his lobe all morning, hoping to ease the swelling; opening the door to his uncharacteristically down-dressed guest, Will fears he completely lost feeling in his fingertips.

He misses the gritty consistency of his rusty doorknob; he does not miss the slight flare of Hannibal’s sensitive nostrils and the minute shift in his attentive gaze, focussing on the immediate periphery of his right cheek. His lips describe a faint stretch upon the immediate realisation that Will is not, in some distorted conception, whole anymore.

Hannibal may be older, more mature than Will is; he is apparently not above wanting to rip off Will’s piercings and let scar tissue close around the edge of his abused earlobe, trusting to treat the damage with undoubtedly loving care. He’s only too well-mannered to try.

Will feigns indifference for Hannibal’s inner turmoil, while allowing him to cross the threshold of his modest apartment.

“Beverly managed to persuade you,” Hannibal casually comments in a paternal tone, hinting at his simple stud earring with resignation; the dryness of his voice deceives Will into considering that Hannibal might be holding his decision against her.

“She knew it was a matter of time, before I gave in,” Will feels compelled to rectify his reasoning. “Only sped up the process.”

For all his faults, Hannibal is not wont to cry over spilt milk; as his brain wraps around the recent desecration of Will’s smooth, perfect extremity, the awareness creeps into his mind that the piercing doesn’t involve both of his ears. “Any specific reason why both of your notches are on the same ear, I wonder?”

 _Keep potential infections localised_ , Will is tempted to answer, blowing his own plan; “Truth is, I wanted to leave open the possibility to look in the mirror, in case I regretted my decision, and consider,” Will reasons aloud, in a comically confidential tone, “Was it _really_ worth the hassle?”

Judging by the way Hannibal’s clean-shaven jaw tightens for the briefest moment, Will suspects he perfectly got the message of better weighting the cost benefit, in the long term.

Hannibal does not inquire about the number of piercings.

Will does not offer unnecessary clarifications.

He directs himself to his cramped bedroom instead, in order to retrieve the infamous notes, which lie on the nightstand waiting for last, counterproductive refreshes. Leading the way along the silent corridor, Will can’t help but notice Hannibal thoughtfully hovering over him, purposely transmitting his dissent for having deprived him of the possibility to pierce him with his own hands, if he so desired.

Will disregards this derailed train of thoughts, considering it’s not in his interest to pursue such thinking; the swelling of his lobe still warms affectionately a small spot on his hairless neck, Will doesn’t mind the dizzying sensation, finds it alarmingly comforting, yet his purpose is to pose a threat. He wants Hannibal to stop behaving as if he had nothing to lose.

There’s still one ear left unscarred, after all. Will plans to exploit it wisely; Hannibal is not the only one capable of manipulative approaches.

Gathering his thoughts on the actual position of the papers for which some of his classmates would probably kill, Will realizes that the dish towel that he had wrapped with ice cubes and pressed on his flushed ear until shortly before Hannibal’s arrival is _not_ where he left it.

Hannibal is suspiciously silent behind is back, where he eventually spots it in his peripheral vision.

In a matter of seconds, said towel lies on his unmade bed; before he can react, Will is easily manhandled to join it in a fluid manoeuvre that makes him bounce on the supple springs of his mattress and throw the unstapled sheets all over them in a cascade of scribbled paper. While he catches his breath, Hannibal towers over him, adjusting the position of his limbs on the bed, while wearing the same look he would organizing his own desk.

Will is sure he could provide a better paperweight while actually placed _on_ the papers, instead of having them all around himself. He’s not about to voice his musings, though.

“These ears,” Hannibal absentmindedly says, holding Will’s arms crossed over his chest. Pressing his own chest on the pin, he effectively ensures the restriction of his movements in a tight embrace, locking his purposeful eyes on Will’s confused ones. Within moments, strong hands encircle his warm mandible in a firm grip and press his right cheek against the creased blanket, holding his face against his sore earlobe in an awkward position; before Will can voice his objection, Hannibal lovingly caresses his left earlobe with his free hand and utters, “I always found them cute.”

Frowning at his miscalculation, Will considers possible retaliations of his own; Hannibal invades his personal space, contemplating appropriate retorts to his bewildered reaction, and Will does not trust him improvising. Not until he keeps himself out of his sight range.

Dull ache radiates from his neck, as a dry palm muzzles his slack mouth.

For a split second, Will fears for his jugular.

Then he retraces the sequence of events leading up to his futile attempts to struggle, screaming in pain while his vision blurs and his fists clench a handful of worn out fabric. He realizes what is happening, while Hannibal sinks his sharp teeth in the soft flesh of his undamaged ear.

Violent shivers cross his tensed body, while the smell of blood reaches his nostrils and the distress of his medically pierced lobe is a far cry from the grief making his eyes close around hot tears.

Will can’t believe how powerless he feels; Hannibal pierces him with purposeful fangs, marking him as his own propriety, and all he can do is wonder how he _dares_ to claim him while in turn not denying himself belonging to Alana.

Planting his feet on the floor, Will leverages his limbs against Hannibal. He notices his sharp inhale, scenting the air searching for evidence of his unbridled desperation and finding instead bubbling anger. Warm trickles of blood run along his neck, soaking in the towel to which Hannibal aims; he hardly will be able to clean it.

Will manages to bite the hand securing his mouth, tightening his teeth like a vice on the soft and sensitive meat, gaining no more than a stifled grimace of discomfort on Hannibal’s part. The coppery taste of blood assaults his senses once again, but this time he knows it’s not his own. A layer of flesh peels under his own teeth, as Hannibal suckles his abused lobe and licks clean the operating theatre in which his play occurred, admiring his work, satisfied.

Hannibal smiles against his jaw, loosening the grip that forces Will’s neck in its uncomfortable twist, puffing moist breathes on his right cheek. His loose hair tickles against Will’s nose, yet he can’t refrain from glaring at Hannibal. At his red canines, shaped like little fangs. At his red lips, stained with Will’s blood.

His tongue laps at the pleasing sight of Will’s respectively bloody mouth.

Then at the pleasing feeling of Will’s unmistakable erection stabbing his inner thigh, still trapped between their entwined legs. Will suspects he might have started to dry hump against him at some point, instead of trying to escape his hold. The thought horrifies him.

Loving hands fondle his curls away from his sweaty forehead, smearing fresh blood on his cheeks, as Hannibal’s tongue laps at his lips, chasing the taste from his smeared teeth. His tentative, indecisive licks encourage Will to overcome his own stupor, approaching those fangs with as much coyness; moaning in cathartic pleasure after so much idle screaming.

 _You psycho_ , Will would like to yell at the both of them, instead of finding himself hungrily biting his insane worshipper with evident obsessive tendencies. What comes out of his mouth instead is, “Did you just perform an ear piercing on me?”

His unfamiliar trembling voice abruptly grounds him to the present, to their undeniable reciprocal involvement, to his poorly concealed jealousy and to Hannibal’s ridiculously serious intentions about him. To the more concrete need to change bedsheets and, quite ashamedly, to possible ways to ruin them even more, before providing a clean set.

Judging by Hannibal’s open grin, Will’s not the only one considering different options, as soon as his lobe is properly disinfected and treated.

“Don’t worry,” Hannibal whispers in an uncommonly professional tone, “I graduated from medical school, last year.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phenobarbital kindly requested for them to have more than a little quarrel, and I just couldn’t say no.  
> I’m sorry it took me so long, but I just couldn’t let Hannibal get away with a stolen kiss while Alana was not looking :)  
> Thank you for reaching the end of this second chapter, which is supposed to be slightly more _fucked up_ than my standards; if you still have energy, you could entertain me with your observations or [some nonsensical rambling](https://cinnamaldeide.tumblr.com/). Otherwise, I’ll just be here.  
> 


	3. Conquering [#MerryMurderFest]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eden_sama asked for a follow-up where Hannibal broke up with Alana, and apparently [Phenobarbital](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Phenobarbital/pseuds/Phenobarbital) wanted to see that too and offered to help me correct bits of this chapter; I've been pressed for time so let's say I took plenty creative license and, after _a month and a half_ , came up with this :)

The realisation comes to Will while he’s waiting for the bratwursts to sink to the bottom of the pot. Boiling them is all the preparation they require, or so is written on their label; it feels more like sterilizing, than cooking.

Nothing Hannibal would approve of, but Will hopes he appreciates his attempt at local cuisine, considering he came unannounced during his Christmas break, which Will planned to spend _alone_ , in his secluded, stark apartment.

“I inadvertently fitted Mason’s unflattering description of us,” Will observes, letting his distaste for their questionably considerate mutual acquaintance show through his sour tone. Behind his shoulders, Hannibal moves sparingly in his cramped kitchen, as he answers, “He would be proud of your attention for his crude phrasing, he rarely bothers to mind his own words.”

His eidetic memory unhelpfully provides definite frames of the exact occasion on which Mason compared them to some lunatic cannibals of dubious culinary skills. “I wouldn’t venture in metaphorical demonstration of sexual depravity,” Will sarcastically offers, “not so soon after our last– conversation.”

From Hannibal’s perspective, Will’s decision to study abroad in a desolate small town in Germany, fleeting every possible chance to encounter him up to his transoceanic departure and continuing to deprive him of Will’s company for the following months, must have appeared as a strategic retreat from their awkward interaction. Will can’t deny it has been a close thing.

His mistreated lobe scarred nicely, while Hannibal continued seeing Alana, undeterred by their compromising predicament, which he failed to legitimize as reciprocal attraction to his restricted but not entirely inconsistent circle of concerned friends; Will could barely assuage Beverly’s visible apprehension, ensuring her his experience was consensual and probably not anymore on the menu, but he couldn’t dispel her doubts on his supposedly masochist tendencies, not volunteering ulterior information on its occurrence.

Will assumed Hannibal considers him as his propriety, which is flattering and plainly inadmissible; Will is _not_ a propriety and Hannibal is in no position to demand his compliance.

“Alana sends her regards,” Hannibal utters in a courteous, viciously accommodating tone, admiring with appreciative eyes the snow-covered view from his mildly fogged windows; high, bare branches reach towards the sky in a futile attempt to pattern its uniform winter whiteness. In the monotonous buzzing his euphemistically minute fridge emits, Will lightly bites the inside of his cheek, seeking relief from the unexpected, bitter longing surging at the mention of her name.

“She often does,” Will observes, setting his mismatched plates in the exiguous space beside his electric stove. “Even though we didn’t exactly part in good terms, she keeps sending me pictures of Applesauce,” Will continues, fondly remembering when Alana forfeited her self-imposed silence and succumbed to the urge of asking how he’s been doing. Will revealed to her he could see a lot of pet food on the shelves, whenever he got supplies at the supermarket, yet no strays crosses his street, canine or otherwise. Only a considerable number of unfriendly squirrels digging through the garbage early in the morning. “Probably took upon herself to relieve my dog abstinence.”

Linguistic barrier excluded, Will’s sociability hasn’t improved with the time zone change; he still avoids eye contact and personal interactions, whenever feasible. Locals accept his indisputable introversion with mild indifference, as Will blends in student crowds or occupies recondite corners of libraries and university classrooms.

Will sporadically texts Alana and few others on his whereabouts, when he feels like he’s suffocating in his own head, not bothering to entertain relationship he’s not interested in pursuing; Will didn’t expect Hannibal to show up on his doorstep with an inadequately small overnight bag, considering his long journey.

“What’re you doing here,” has been Will’s first rhetorical question; “Coffee,” the second. Will had predictably missed his blearily disgruntled grimace at its burnt taste.

“Alana tacitly longs to ascertain your well-being,” her name, on his lips, sounds like jealousy; Will doesn’t delude himself anymore into thinking the feeling is directed at him. “Even now that she knows about my attraction to you,” Hannibal adds, as if absentmindedly mentioning an irrelevant detail. He keeps sipping his awful coffee calmly.

Dispassionately staring at their aspiring lunch, which lazily describes predictable circles in the boiling water, Will realizes it has been a while since he last heard from her. Turning the power off, conscious that the platform will still emit heath for several minutes, he contemplates the different quality of silence left behind Hannibal’s apparently casual words.

Refusing to turn his back on Hannibal any longer, Will faces him. “You broke up with her.”

“Just before my departure,” he confirms.

“Guess she’s not sending me pictures anymore, then,” Will’s disbelief clearly intelligible in his low voice. Resting his waist against the water spots adorning his furniture since before his arrival, Will briefly glances at Hannibal, considering.

His sharp eyes, eyes that don’t bear traces of a sleepless night on an international flight, trails on Will’s weary figure, seeking to establish an unbreakable contact without involving his impatient fingers, which hold tight on his uninteresting full cup. Debating whether reaching out, torn between the instinct to wound and the one to fondle.

Hannibal hasn’t come to stroll the Weihnachtsmärkte.

Despite his continuous efforts, abandonment is an acquired taste for Will; the bitter, familiar feeling of disappointed expectations prevent him from acknowledging his sense of relief, hearing Hannibal dispel his doubts about his supposedly unrequited affection. There’s no guarantee Will is being considered anything above an intriguing possession taken for granted that suddenly disappeared from its spot on the shelf, but Hannibal hadn’t expected to feel his absence.

Considering the limited dimension of Will’s kitchen, Hannibal needs only raising from his seat to stand in front of him; “Your roommates are visiting their families, I presume,” Hannibal casually comments, letting his disapproving tone inform Will that Hannibal expected him to follow their example. “Too bad my father doesn’t celebrate Christmas,” Will answers.

The kiss is unexpected and unyielding. Will barely manages to finish his sentence, before his sharp lips cover his chapped own.

Hanging onto his steel furniture, Will attempts to fight the instinctive impulse to wrap his eager hands around Hannibal’s unsightly turtleneck, bringing him closer, bracing against the inevitable remorse of having taken too long before surrendering; Will succumbs embarrassingly quickly to his overwhelming want.

“You’ve been missing for the past four months,” Hannibal whispers directly on his lips, “and I’ve been feeling like Hades waiting for his spouse’s return from her withdraw into the Earth,” his classic reference disregarding her non-consensual abduction. Will’s attention verges on the probably unintended implication that _Hannibal_ missed him. “Interesting use of the passive form,” Will breaths against his mouth, before drawing him into another kiss.

Intertwining their upper limbs in an uncomfortable, suffocating hug, Will wonders how far his emotions are mirroring Hannibal’s, how much of what he’s feeling is genuine; interacting with him has left Will sceptical about his own ability to reconstruct a train of thought, which he can certainly identify as spontaneous.

“If you don’t plan on boiling the both of us, alongside that poor excuse of processed meat,” Hannibal studiously distracts him, sliding one of his legs between Will’s, “I’d suggest we relocate to your room.”

They do, despite Will retorting unhelpful remarks on their food alternatives, “Want to be introduced to my rice cooker?” just to admire Hannibal’s pained, meaningful expression; Will missed him too.

In contrast to his considerably modest kitchen, Will has been provided with an ambitiously spacious room; he elected to ignore it was probably meant to accommodate eventual guests, up until Hannibal’s arrival. Regardless of its dimension, there’s only one mattress at their disposal.

Ruining his already unmade bed with their combined weight, they gingerly proceed reciprocally discarding their clothes, cajoling with insistent hands uncooperative shirts and undergarments. Their tentative approach results in an intricate concoction of discarded fabric around them. Contrary to their first rough frottage, when they had experienced an intense crashing of mouths, rather than proper kisses, Will concentrates on savouring Hannibal’s persistent lips, unhurriedly tracing his own with the tip of his tongue.

His cold linens warm quickly under his shoulders. His quiet breath soon becomes erratic under his voluptuous strain. His cold feet find rapidly their ideal temperature under Hannibal’s ministration.

Hannibal alternatively closes his eyes, deepening his tongue in Will’s mouth, and opens them to stare in Will’s with reverent devotion; Will is similarly astonished he can have this, he’s been legitimated to lay in bed with Hannibal not platonically, not secretly, nor coercively.

His hands skim over his unexpectedly hirsute chest, testing its pert flesh with attention; Will’s conflicted between taking his sweet time and hurrying, before something disrupts their precarious balance and he wakes up alone in his bed on the Christmas Eve, like the previous year, and the one before that.

Lost in his elucubration, Will doesn’t realize Hannibal has literally taken matters into his own hands, freeing their erections one at a time to pull them close and letting their glistening preseminal fluids mingle in a filthy puddle on his bare abdomen; his fingers caress their sensitive skin, while Will contemplates going further than aggressively rooting against one another.

As a matter of fact, he isn’t equipped. Hannibal, obviously, is.

Spreading his legs to insinuate himself in their welcoming warmth, Hannibal grinds his teeth and searches for his discreet package of lube and condoms; Will presumes he has predisposed himself to be optimist, more than precautionary, since he took plenty of both.

Hannibal doesn’t ask permission, nor compliance; he limits himself to sinking long, callous fingers in his anal orifice and stimulate his internal walls, as if he aimed to ensure Will is indeed muscles and sensations to the touch.

Will has to snap him out of his reverie, to obtain his second finger; thrusting his hips on it doesn’t meet the satisfaction he’s been aiming for, but Hannibal’s loose hair caresses and tickles his chest, as his consuming mouth travels from his pert nipples to his swollen lips.

The third digit makes him scream, and not in pleasure; his grip on his sheets tightens as the one around Hannibal’s dexterous, distracting knuckles, but there’s something inside, something sensitive that makes his toe curl and his spine arch. Will knows Hannibal is denying him his release on purpose, and he mentally notes to return the favour, possibly in their near future.

When he finally breaches his lubricated entrance with his considerable girth, Will mirrors his hard grimace and sinks his nails on his contracted arms, climbing to his neck instead of lowering his head to reach for his softly gasping mouth. “Fuck,” he murmurs against his slack mandible, “Fuck Hannibal,” he repeats, as piercing pain mingles with another intense sensation he hardly identifies as satisfying. “I need more–”

Before he’s aware, Will find himself riding his own orgasm with insistent thrusts and Hannibal’s precise aims at his prostate; his stiff legs beg for mercy, but he eventually manages to spill his semen in Hannibal’s pumping fist. Will supposes it’ll take him a while to reciprocate, he barely has energy to rest his back against his bedpost.

Nailing him against it, with strong arms and deep breathes, is the way Hannibal decides to come. Oversensitive, sleepy and not nearly satisfied, Will acknowledges he needs a break, before discovering how many of those condom will they require for the rest of the day.

Will starts to worry around the forth.

He’s under no illusion that Hannibal won’t spend the night, but he has to wash that set of blankets if he aspire to have another prepared for their upcoming round; they find themselves alone in the boiler room, surrounded with empty washing machine, making out mostly spread over the only one in function. “Predictably, no one does their laundry around the holidays,” Will giggles.

“Has this been your plan all along,” Hannibal inquires, “do the laundry around the holidays?”

Will guesses his unjustified sense of betrayal at the unappealing perspective of having Will far for longer than he’d prepared himself; “As I told you, I don’t really celebrate Christmas,” Will avoids his piercing eyes, “I didn’t plan to come back,” _I planned to stay away from you_.

Hannibal easily divines his motivations. “I supposed as much,” he begins, “but I fervently support the notion of celebrating familiar interaction under festivities; I plan to visit my own, or that’s left of it,” a challenging gleam in his attentive eyes.

“Yet here you are, stuck in the middle of nowhere, an ocean away from your residence, in the dubiously pleasing company of a socially inept, reclusive student,” Will succinctly summarises their curious occurrence. “Christmas is tomorrow, but even you cannot fly back in time to unwrap your present under the tree.”

His openly flirtatious smile suggests Hannibal already had exactly what he wanted for Christmas; he had to flight twelve hours to collect it. “I will, in fact, travel to France to greet my relatives,” he supplies.

“Of course your heritage resides in France; Paris, I bet.”

“I would gladly include you in my family circle, given the change; you know how I feel about wasted opportunities,” Hannibal continues, unrelented, “and the train from here requires less than three hours. Germany’s public transport system rivals most in efficacy.”

“You wouldn’t believe the number of delayed train I saw suppressed for weather conditions,” Will retorts, eager to divert the conversation from Hannibal’s unreasonable proposal; “I’m not coming to Paris to meet your relatives, we just started fucking, and I’m not even sure we’ll keep doing that,” he rectifies, which is always necessary with Hannibal.

As the washing machine announces its accomplished task and they wrestle steamy fabric out of its basked, surrounding themselves with the permeating perfume of industrial lavender softener, Hannibal escorts him to his small quarters, describing peculiar, unfailing rituals typical of the region where his remaining family members live; Will slowly surrenders to the likelihood of meeting them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> German Christmas markets are beautiful, but not as much as Christmas at home with your family; the title is inspired by [my own post](https://cinnamaldeide.tumblr.com/post/165587647829/) regarding my period abroad and honestly I'm short on Conquer derivates :/  
> #MerryMurderFest and a White Christmas Eve everyone :*


	4. Fanarts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seems like Conquered has inspired some amazing (Nsfw) works (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

  
Manip by [@Phenobarbital](https://phenobarbitalfiction.tumblr.com/)

  


  
Fanart by [@le-wendigogo](https://le-wendigogo.tumblr.com/) **|** [Original link](https://le-wendigogo.tumblr.com/post/166320316947/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted with the consent of their respective creators :)


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